Everything is sharp clarity and rough edges, softened by fatigue and love.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I breathe against his lips, fingers trailing down his chest.
His eyes shine with relief, and he pulls me close.
We lay together, wrapped in blankets, listening to the rhythm of our hearts.
Outside, autumn rustles, but inside, we are safe and warm.
More than that.
We arealive.
We are free.
The dim light flickers, casting shifting shadows as Thorne removes his own shirt, his skin glowing with the faint vine-like patterns under the surface. His muscles are taut, etched with the energy of a hundred summers.
We are tangled in each other, skin to skin. He runs his hands over my curves, and I let myself be undressed, piece by piece.
"Clara," he breathes, as if tasting the shape of my name. "You are more vibrant than the most exotic bloom."
His fingers trace the contours of my breasts, my hips, my thighs. I gasp at each touch, the sensation electric, grounding me in the moment. His hands are careful, but his need is palpable.
He kisses me with a fierce tenderness, lips trailing down my neck, teeth grazing my shoulders. I arch into him, nails digging into the hard planes of his back. Our breath mingles—short, sharp, desperate.
“I need you,” I whisper, and it seems to ignite him.
He nudges my knees apart, and his fingers find my wet heat. I bite my lip, trying to muffle a sound that is part moan, part sigh. He touches me slowly, methodically, with the precision of a gardener tending their most cherished plants. My hips shift to meet him, seeking more.
I drown in sensation, fingers clutching the sheets, his skin, anything to anchor me.
When his fingers withdraw, I whimper in protest, only to have his lips replace them, exploring me with a familiar reverence.
I lose any sense of thought, of self. There is only Thorne. Only this. Only burning, building, blossoming.
And when his cock enters me, it is with a careful slowness, as if he is afraid of shattering something fragile.
"Clara," he murmurs, voice rough, "you feel?—"
But I can’t let him finish. Can't let this become too tender, too sweet. I nip at his shoulder, urging him on with my hips. "Harder," I whisper.
He groans, rolling his hips deep, deeper, and I lose myself in the rhythm. Our bodies are a dance, a battle, a blend of need and give and take.
Thorne’s jaw clenches with restraint, but his movements are fierce and purposeful. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, craving every bit of contact.
His thrusts become harder, faster. I gasp his name, over and over, fingers clutching at the muscles of his back, the back of his neck.
He glances down at me, and I find those eyes void of thorny shadows, no longer bound to latent violence. Only need. A need that echoes my own.
He sweeps a strand of hair from my face, his gentle touch incongruous with our urgent coupling.
I am pulled apart, rewoven. Fire builds within me, sharp and brilliant.
I kiss Thorne's shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. My body trembles, not from the cold, not from the void pulling at me, but from the sheer intensity of every touch, every movement, drawing me deeper into him. He drives into me with powerful,rhythmic thrusts, each one filling me until I'm gasping his name, clinging to him for dear life. The rhythm grows frantic, a wild dance of need and desperation as we chase that final crescendo.
“Thorne,” I gasp, voice breaking. “You’re everywhere. I need—I need?—”
"Me too," he growls, teeth scraping against my collarbone. "Clara, you're?—"
